I was eighteen when the world fractured on my front porch.
Behind me, the house was a symphony of ordinary chaos. Lila’s laughter echoed from the kitchen because Tommy had christened a saucepan of cereal “breakfast soup.” Phoebe was shrieking, labeling him “gross” with theatrical conviction.
Sybil was on a frantic, one-footed hunt for her left shoe. Ethan and Adam were embroiled in a heated dispute over a hoodie that belonged to neither of them, and Benji was drifting across the linoleum, dragging his blanket like a tiny, somnambulant ghost.
For ten suspended seconds, life was breathtakingly normal.
I was eighteen.
Then the officer spoke, his voice heavy with a gravity that didn’t belong in our hallway. “Are you Rowan?”
The knowledge hit me before he could finish the sentence. The expression etched into his features said everything words hadn’t yet reached. My hand remained frozen on the doorknob.
“Yes.”
His partner’s gaze drifted past me, surveying my siblings as if he were already calculating where all seven of them would be scattered.
“There’s been an accident,” he stated, the air in the room suddenly turning to lead. “And your parents didn’t survive it.”
In the kitchen, Lila’s laughter d1ed a sudden, jagged de:ath.
“Are you Rowan?” the voice repeated, but it sounded miles away.
“What?” I managed to ask, my intellect surrendering to a sudden, vast vacuum.
“I’m sorry, son. I suggest you call some family over to help.”
Tommy wandered into the hallway, a white mustache of milk on his upper lip. “Rowan?”
I turned back toward the house. Seven faces were gathered there, suspended, waiting for me to tell them how the world worked now.
I eased the door halfway shut, shielding them from the sight of the uniforms, and forced my voice to hold.
“Everybody sit down.”
Phoebe’s voice was a frantic whisper. “Where are Mom and Dad?”
I parted my lips to answer, but the air in my lungs had turned to dust.
“I suggest you call some family,” the officer’s advice echoed in the silence.
A few days later, Ms. Hart from Child Protective Services sat across from me. Between us lay a folder thick enough to serve as a tombstone for my youth.
Tommy was de:ad to the world on the sofa. Lila and Phoebe were shadows in the hallway, anchored there by a pretense of not eavesdropping.
“These children will require temporary placement,” Ms. Hart announced, her tone professional yet weary.
“Together?” I asked, though I already felt the answer in my bones.
She glanced down at the dossier. That single movement was the only confirmation I needed. “No.”
A stifled, broken sound escaped Lila in the hallway.
Tommy didn’t stir on the couch.
I locked my gaze onto Ms. Hart’s. “They just lost Mom and Dad.”
“I know, Rowan,” she replied, her voice softening into a hollow kindness.
“No. If you actually knew, you wouldn’t be suggesting we sort them into different lives like mismatched socks.”
Her professional veneer cracked slightly. “Rowan, you’re eighteen.”
“I am acutely aware of how old I am.”
“You have no degree and no stable income. According to the records, the mortgage is in arrears.”
“I can work. I can learn. Just… do not tear them apart.”
“They just lost Mom and Dad,” she repeated, as if the tragedy were an argument for surrender.
“It isn’t that simple.”
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